Chapter Text
There are three things of which Toji is absolutely sure:
- White is a hideous hair color.
No, he’s not talking about the type you see on old farts and poodles. He’s talking about the type you see on cocky bastards with six beady eyes and limitless arrogance, snowflake locks rustling gently in the breeze as globs of crimson spattered from Toji’s chest onto the fractured ground, in a twisted imitation of abstract art.
It’s Toji’s earliest memory since he lost most of them, and it’s patchy; all he remembers is a crystal blue sky hiding between the stormclouds in the boy’s deadly eyes, his limbs bent and unhinged like a broken doll, an airy smile slipped across his lips as if he were mocking him. Toji’s instincts had flared and he ignored them, as red clouded his vision and black swallowed his heart -- and then everything was hollow. That man punctuates the end and beginning of Toji’s life, cleaving his existence into two halves of something that was never even whole to begin with. Which brings him to his next fact:
2. Toji should not be alive anymore.
He should’ve died that day; and he’s pretty sure a part of him did, in some way or another. But he’d opened his eyes anyways and his back ached from laying too long against a cold metal surface, and the first sight that greeted him was a woman with long flaxen hair who asked, “What kind of woman is your type?” He’d looked her up and down with a wry smile and replied, “Not you,” even though that was kind of a lie. Beside her was a woman in a bleach-white lab coat with under-eye bags so deep they could’ve buried a body.
It hadn’t taken him long to notice the strange stitches on his side and around his bicep, and his left arm looked eerily like it wasn’t originally his own. Upon blinking the death out of his gaze, the blonde introduced herself as Yuki and had called him Toji -- and when he’d asked her if that was really his name, her eyes went wide as saucers and the examination began. While Toji doesn’t think he would’ve otherwise minded being poked and prodded by two beautiful women at the same time, it felt hauntingly similar to being a specimen under a microscope -- like he was more dead than alive, a butchered, broken mess of a thing.
It didn’t take long for the doctor to conclude that he had something akin to ‘severe shock-induced amnesia.’ Yuki had opened her mouth to presumably spill his life’s story, but the doctor slapped a hand over her face, saying it was best if memories ‘like that’ came back naturally -- and Toji really didn’t like what that implied. Kinda made him want to leave those memories buried, forgotten in the chasms of his brain where they belonged. He could keep the baggage, or just burn the whole suitcase instead.
Yuki explained that once, before whatever this was happened, he’d blown her off and refused to let her study him. He hadn’t really understood why at first, but he had nothing better to do, so he’d accepted. Besides, he figured he somewhat owed her for saving his life. She told him to lay low and use a fake name; he went with “Toshirou” because it was easy to remember and felt no less real than his actual name. There wasn’t much that felt real back then, actually. Except his one last piece of knowledge about himself:
3. Toji is not a good person.
There’s the issue that everything he touches feels like grime after he lays his hands on it, along with having the moral compass of a crocodile and the self-preservation instincts of an alley cat, willing to dig through dumpsters and lick fishbones clean just to survive. He cycles through each of the seven deadly sins on a daily basis; laziness tethers him to slumber every morning like weights around his ankles, hunger for food and cash being the only thing that drags him out. He wakes in someone else’s bed more often than not, breath reeking of booze and lipstick smeared across his chest. There’s a twisted pride in his guts and he doesn’t know where it came from, only that it makes the stitches on his body itch and ooze with blood, pulsing with unfounded jealousy and anger with no origin.
He wonders if he was just born this way, or if something lost in the maze of his memories made him like this, and he’s not sure he wants to find out. Something strange tells him you don’t just wake up jaded like this. It’s not that he hates the world; he’s just not interested in it at all.
It’s been almost a year and a half since then. There are days when he almost catches a glimpse of the person he used to be, and it never fails to make him look away from the mirror. Yuki stops by every once in a while to see if any memories have resurfaced, but they never do. Other things, beyond his three self-imposed commandments -- like a childhood, an occupation, even a last name -- still elude him.
It’s just a hunch, but he thinks he might've had a family once. It stems from feeling like there’s a hole in his heart completely unrelated to when the white-haired brat carved out a gruesome cavity in the left side of his chest.
But wherever they are, they’re long gone now. If god forbid, his family is dead or lost forever, he’d rather die himself than remember it. Life is way easier if he’s just on his own.
Getting reacquainted with the realm of curses was quick; it’s more of a crash-course necessity that comes along with seeing everything from eight-headed serpents to talking spiders on his morning run alone. Before he’d called up Yuki and she’d filled him in on the barebones of jujutsu, he’d freaked out a whole crowd of people by having a conversation with a very human-like cursed spirit by the bus stop one morning -- yeah, that was hilarious. Would’ve been embarrassing if he had any shame.
It takes him just slightly more time to learn that he’s different from the other inhabitants of the dark underbelly of the jujutsu world, and every other citizen in general. Cursed energy flows through their veins in everything from tiny creeks to surging rivers, but Toji himself has none at all.
Eventually, he finds himself in the dregs of society. He had pitiful success trying to work “normal jobs”: he got fired after three days working in a warehouse (fell asleep in one of the boxes and almost got shipped to Argentina), didn’t make it a week as a janitor (took one look at the office bathroom after a party and quit), and didn’t even last a single night as a waiter (poured vodka on a toddler’s head -- don’t ask). Now, he’s what some might call…a freelancer. People pay him to do shit, and they like him because he doesn’t ask questions. He hasn’t killed anyone yet, but he wouldn’t put it past himself; not now, nor in the life he can’t remember.
It’s how he hears the first whisper of who he was in his past life: from his instincts in combat. The thrill of the fight is when he feels closest to unlocking those memories buried deep inside his marrow -- each time he lands a knockout blow, the key almost feels within his grasp. So he keeps on fighting; not necessarily because he wants to remember, but it seems like it’s the only thing he’s any good at.
The fateful day starts out like any other. Toji breaks his own record of “world’s worst cup of coffee” before leaving the confines of his shithole apartment. It’s not like the shady jobs he takes don’t pay him well enough to live somewhere better, but Toji’s spending habits leave something to be desired. He couldn’t hold onto cash if it were glued to his pockets. What can he say? He’s a sucker for a good gamble. Not that he’s ever had a good gamble. Maybe he’s just not Lady Luck’s type, because he has yet to take her home even once.
His first -- and what ends up being his only -- stop is at a weapons shop, tucked deep within a dingy unmarked alley in the worst part of town. His last fight wrecked his favorite sword, thanks to a haughty bastard who must’ve found it funny to crack the blade when Toji slotted it between his ribs. Asshole.
The crisp air of the midmorning sky is just beginning to weigh heavy with traffic smog, tainting the wind with the faint scent of asphalt and gasoline. Instead of a bell, broken knife shards chime together as he heaves open the bulky wooden door, and the tension knotted in his shoulders slips away as soon as the entrance creaks shut. It’s so incredibly fucked up he’s most comfortable here that it’s almost hilarious.
The shopkeeper greets him with a grunt without looking up from his newspaper. Toji peruses the shelves leisurely, eyes glinting with slick silver and reflective gold, until the makeshift bell chimes again, and all time beyond the door pulls to a halt.
In walks a little girl. She’s dressed in what appears to be some sort of servant’s attire, a thick cotton kimono top woven with ivory thread and a pleated cobalt skirt too long for her short ankles. Pin-straight hair the color of an evergreen forest dusts her shoulders in a blunt bob, and bangs just a touch too long brush against a dark fan of sparse lashes.
Something undefinable jolts through Toji’s veins like a thunderstrike on dry grass. All five of his heightened senses burst into wildfire at once. There’s something about her presence that burns hotter than the scorching infernos in all nine circles of hell, despite her cursed energy barely shining brighter than the tip of a candle.
In fact, the only person he’s ever encountered with less cursed energy is himself. It’s like seeing his own reflection in a funhouse mirror a third of his size.
Blood thrums in his head, and he starts to feel dizzy. All of a sudden and all at once, his first real memory of his life before his fight with the Six-Eyes slams into him full-force like an overturned truck.
Light raindrops patter gently against the single-pane window, leaving long streaks of shadows across the hospital floor, cutting the dim light filtering in through the blinds into hazy stripes. Near the corner of the room, a heart monitor beeps in a slow, steady rhythm, the staccato nearly playing in tune with the sound of the storm.
In the bed beside him, a woman inhales and exhales in shaky, drawn-out breaths, carefully recuperating after sixteen grueling hours of labor that felt more like a century.
Soft coos fill the room like music, and Toji holds the newborn child closer to his chest. He can’t tear his eyes away from the tiny life bundled in a cheap blanket in his arms, his whole being completely captivated with starstruck awe. The child wraps a little hand around his finger, and nothing in Toji’s life has ever come close to this.
“Toji, you’re spacing out again,” the woman chuckles, her voice sweet like raw sugar and molten honey. “Did you hear me? What should we name our baby?”
Toji takes a deep breath, and the baby smiles up at him. There is only one name worthy of a child as perfect as this.
“M---”
“Oi, kid,” Toji says. Fuck, his voice came out way shakier than he wanted it to. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
The girl glares daggers at him from behind a pair of red-rimmed glasses too big for her tiny face. She’s looking at him like he’s totally crazy, which isn’t entirely untrue. “Huh? Who the heck are you?”
In lieu of answering, he asks, “What’s your name?”
The girl scowls. “Maki.”
“Maki,” he repeats, and it’s like a missing piece of his soul falls back into place. The record of his life before he fought the Six-Eyes brat is a long, impossibly white scroll of nothing -- but written on it in faint letters is the name of a child, a child with a delicate name that brushed the heavens, spun a prayer into letters; a name that began with an M, and it ended in i, too.
“Maki,” he says again. “I think you’re my daughter.”
Maki blinks, and the shopkeeper gives him a weird look. Alright, maybe blurting out something like that wasn’t exactly his brightest moment, but Toji isn’t exactly a bright person. He folds his arms across his chest and shifts his weight, if for no other reason than to keep his shit together. Last thing he needs is for her to bolt before they even have the chance to talk.
After his words sink in, Maki pulls a disgusted face so sour Toji would be proud if it weren’t directed at him. Yup, she’s definitely his kid. “Hah? I have a worthless dad already, so no thanks.”
Damn, ouch. That would’ve dented his pride if his self-loathing didn’t already do it for her. “Worthless?” he repeats casually. “And what makes ya say that?”
“You’re loitering by yourself inside a weapons shop in tattered clothes at ten o’clock in the morning. I can put two and two together.”
Lord, the mouth on this girl. She can’t be more than six years old. Toji has to fight back the wolfish grin that threatens to overtake his features. He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Can’t argue with that,” he replies with a shrug. “But what’s a little kid like you doing loitering by yourself inside a weapons shop at ten o’clock in the morning?”
Maki squeezes her fists. “I’m not a little kid!”
“You’re practically a fetus.”
But Maki doesn’t deign herself into taking the bait. Instead, she knits her arms together and switches her hips -- until she realizes she’s struck the exact same pose as him, then she straightens out stiff as a board. “I’m busy, so can you go be weird somewhere else?”
“Nah, I’m perfectly fine being weird right here,” Toji quips with a dismissive wave. “Besides, I’m busy too.”
Maki turns up her nose and huffs, putting far too much effort into pretending to ignore him for it to appear natural. He must’ve been staring at her too hard, because the shopkeeper loudly clears his throat, arches an eyebrow over the edge of his newspaper, and levels him a disapproving look. Toji fails to suppress a snort, and Maki fails to suppress a flinch when he does it.
She turns her back towards him to face a shelf lined with combat knives, and stands there staring at them for a ridiculously long time. It’s so painfully quiet that the old clock ticking on the wall might as well be a marching band drumline, with how much the silence echoes throughout the room. There’s a paper grocery bag slung over her shoulder, and judging from the slow and steady drip from its corner, she has warm food in it that’s getting cold and cold food in it that’s getting warm.
Christ, this is gonna take forever. It’s almost hard to watch. Toji has to intervene.
“Who are you buying that for?” Toji asks her, although something tells him that he already knows the answer.
“Who do you think?” she bites back, glancing over her shoulder with her brows furrowed together. “It’s for me, duh.”
It’s like looking in a goddamn mirror. “Why? You got someone you wanna stab?”
“Yeah,” she replies, oddly determined. “Tons of people.”
Toji’s holding back a smirk so hard his cheeks are starting to hurt. “You should get that one, then,” he suggests, pointing towards a knife made of black carbon with a slight arc to its blade. “Handle’s got a great grip that prevents traction even if your hand gets drenched in blood. If you face the blunt edge towards ya, that thing’ll parry blows from weapons five times its size. Plus, that material’s just what you’re lookin’ for, since it won’t dull even if you gotta stab multiple people back to back.”
He can’t tell if that look on her face is one of harsh judgment or morbid fascination, but it’s probably a healthy mix of both. “Uh,” she says intelligently, lifting the knife from the shelf without breaking his gaze. “Thanks.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Toji replies. Maki places the knife on the counter, withdrawing her coin purse as she prepares to pay and -- fuck, does she have more money on her than he does right now? That’d be hilarious if it weren’t so pathetic. Damn those horse races. This is all their fault.
Maki tucks the weapon into a deep pocket in her skirt, as if she’s planning to hide it from whoever she’s going home to. Without another glance in his direction, she gives a curt bow of thanks to the shopkeeper, pivots on her heels, and shoves open the door.
So Toji follows more on autopilot than of his own volition. If his instincts are correct and there’s some connection between the two of them -- if this girl truly is his daughter -- then there’s no way he can let her slip through his fingers, for more reasons than he can possibly count. Something urgent and desperate surges through him, and he clears his throat.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
Maki whirls around and glowers at him, her warm golden eyes cold as a lake in the dead of winter. “Do I need to call the cops?”
Wow, this is going very poorly. Toji wishes he were surprised, but it would almost be more surprising if something actually went his way for once. And ain’t that sad?
Toji tries to think of something to say, but it feels like he’s just grasping at straws. “You even know how to use that thing?”
“Yes,” she replies, but the lie is so obvious her nose might as well be growing like Pinnochio’s. Bingo. Kids are so easy to read.
Toji steels his resolve. “I can teach you.”
Maki thrusts her hands onto her hips, dripping more water from the now very drenched grocery bag onto the pavement in the plaza. “And why should I believe that you know how to use it?”
“What, my sagely advice wasn’t proof enough for ya?” he snorts. “Well, it’s like you said, isn’t it? I was loitering by myself inside a weapons shop in tattered clothes at ten o’clock in the morning. You said you knew what that implied--” he arches a single taunting eyebrow, “--unless that was just talk.”
Maki narrows her eyes into dark slits. “What’s the catch?” she snaps. “Why are you even offering?”
Toji gulps. He feels like he really shouldn’t repeat it. She clearly doesn’t believe him, and he’s not gonna push it. He’s lucky she even turned around to talk to him now.
“Y’know,” he starts instead, frying the few meager brain cells he has left. “Because I’m a super nice guy.”
Yeah, Maki looks thoroughly unimpressed.
“You think I’m just gonna accept dangerous combat lessons from a random suspicious person?”
Toji frowns. There’s a dark stain on his shirt that’s either coffee or blood -- either is equally likely. They’re often both part of his morning routine. He jerks a hand over it gracelessly. “I’m not a suspicious person.”
“You’re the textbook definition of a suspicious person!”
Hang on, he can work with this. “You read a lot of textbooks?”
Maki rolls her eyes. “I need to get back to my family, so leave me alone.”
That stings a surprising amount. “Your family?”
“Yeah, my family,” she spits, her voice tinged with a bitter sadness Toji can’t quite place. Then under her breath she adds, “Useless, all of ‘em. Even worse than you.”
“You don’t even know me!”
Somehow, he earns a smirk from her at that. “Yeah, exactly.”
She turns back around to leave. Shit, he’s losing her. He’s got one last trick up his sleeve.
“Lemme prove it,” Toji calls. “Try to attack me with that knife.”
Unsurprisingly, this piques her interest. “Fine,” she replies smoothly. “But don’t blame me if you die.”
Gotta love that unwavering confidence -- even if it’s completely baseless right now. She’s his spitting image.
Maki inhales a sharp breath and sets the grocery bag on the pavement beside her. She slams her toes into the asphalt and surges forward like an arrow, withdrawing the knife from the fluttering folds of her skirt in the same swift motion. Her legs sweep low to the ground, focus in both her face and body narrowed directly towards her target. Her shoulders draw back and her knees absorb the impact of her sprinting, building up energy like a rubber band ready to snap.
It’s freakishly uncanny how much her movements are just like his. There isn’t a shred of doubt left in his mind anymore.
This girl is his child. She’s exactly like Toji when he was her age.
Wait, when I was her age?!
Before the memory can return, the knife is whistling towards him -- when the hell did Maki jump?! -- and her grip on it tightens as if ready to plunge into his chest. Toji won’t hesitate to admit that he’s impressed; but her technique is lackluster, and her footwork is sloppy at best. Toji dives towards her, swiping the knife effortlessly from her grasp in the moment between two fractions of a second.
To her credit, she rights herself fast; but not fast enough. Her eyes widen in panic when he false-swipes the blade towards her chest, only to pitch it up at the last moment to catch it in his teeth -- alright, sue him for showing off a bit -- and flicks her on the forehead right between the eyes instead.
“See?” He withdraws the blade from his mouth and twirls it nimbly between the ladder of his fingers, then licks off the bead of blood he draws from balancing it on his fingertip -- okay, he’s showing off a lot. If the indignant pout on her face is any sign, his devilish grin must be stretching from ear to ear. “Told ya.”
Maki huffs in annoyance and makes a show of rolling her eyes across the whole plaza, but Toji can tell she’s begrudgingly impressed.
Victory.
They don’t have the same eye color, but they’ve got the same look in them. He knows Maki must see it too, from the way she scrutinizes his features as if trying to decipher a code. Her face is unreadable; she reaches out her hand wordlessly to take back her knife, and Toji gives it to her. She slips it back into her pocket and retrieves her grocery bag, her eye contact burning through Toji’s own.
“What’s your name?”
He should give her his fake one; Toshirou dances in the back of his throat, but the word dies long before it can reach his tongue.
“Toji.”
“Toji,” she repeats, as if she’s pocketing it for later. “Bye, I guess.”
“There’s an old building a couple blocks away from here,” he calls after her. “Big hulking grey thing, ya can’t miss it. Ugly as sin, but it’s got good floors and full-length mirrors perfect for combat practice.” He gulps, and his throat feels totally dry. “In three days. How about it?”
Maki doesn’t turn around; Toji’s chest sinks. Then she pauses, ever so briefly, and replies, “Nine o’clock.”
“Eleven o’clock.”
“Ten.”
She continues on after that, and Toji watches as her figure shrinks smaller and smaller towards the horizon until she disappears into the afternoon. It’s only then that he finally allows himself to exhale, and his shoulders slump, exhausted.
Oh crap, he forgot to buy a sword for himself.
Eh, whatever. He can always come back later. Toji saunters over to a nearby bench and plops down, basking languidly as rays of light drench his chest with a gentle warmth he’s sure isn’t coming from the sun alone.
He closes his eyes, loses himself to the chorus of traffic all around him, and can’t help the feeling that his life has just been changed forever.